


The Context of Us

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [228]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Arguing, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: When Batman gets the giggles, you know things aren’t looking great.





	The Context of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fake marriage.

When Batman gets the giggles, you know things aren’t looking great.  
  
“Bruce,” Clark hisses through his teeth, “this isn’t funny.”

“And how’s that, do you figure?”

Bruce’s grin is blinding. The cowl’s on the floor by his feet. “You can’t tell me you woke up this morning with even an inkling that anything like this could possibly happen.”

Clark scrubs at his face, pretends he can wash away the red. “Of course not.”

“Exactly.”

“So--?”

“Oh, come on, Kent.” Bruce makes a broad sweep of his hands, one that takes in the fire pit, the bed, the high walls of the tent. “Look at this shit. It’s ridiculous.”

“Not to the beings of this planet, Bruce. You heard their priestess; this place is sacred to them.”

A snort. “Don’t get all sanctimonious on me. I’m not denigrating these people or their customs. What I’m saying is that in the context of us, you and me, this whole set up’s absurd. You’re not exactly what I’m looking for in a wife, Kent.”

Clark crosses his arms, watches Bruce unhook his cape and toss it over a chair. “Yeah, well. You’d be a terrible husband.”

“No argument here.”

Their eyes meet. Clark’s heart skips a misguided beat.

“Well, good,” he says. It comes out more like a bluster. “At least we agree on something.”

Bruce shakes his head and heads towards the bed, sits hard on the soft edge. “We’ll be fine for one night, all right? A few more hours in here and custom will be satisfied and we’ll be on our way home.” He leans down, his fingers on his laces. A gray curl tumbles over his eyes. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue’s in no danger. I’ll stay on my side of the bed.”

 _Yeah_ , Clark thinks to himself, the coil of his gut going tight. _I know you will. Damn it._

 

*****  


“Are you mad because I’m not Diana?”

“What?”

The bed hitches as Bruce rolls towards him. They’ve shuttered the lamps and banked the fire but the tent’s held on to its glow; even behind Clark’s closed eyes, the shadows are fighting with light.

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I don’t--?”

Bruce sighs. “Come on. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be stuck in here with her.”

“ _Diana_?” The thought’s like taffy in Clark’s head, sticky and yet hard to hold on to. “She’s--she’s my best friend, Bruce.”

A low snort. “No shit. That doesn’t mean you can’t find her attractive.”

“I mean, she’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. She’s ethereal. She’s a goddess, for Rao’s sake!”

“Exactly my point. Wouldn’t you rather be held politely semi-captive in a alien marriage tent with her?”

“Instead of you, you mean.”

“That was the implication, yes.”

Bruce has rolled closer, he must have, because Clark can feel the heat of his skin, each tiny vibration: of his blood, his breath, the steady thud of his heart. He was naked, they both were; it was either that or sleep in their respective armor. Clark had been severely tempted, he had, and if his brain was working properly, if it wasn’t so hung up on Not Looking and Not Touching and Not Saying Things He’d Told Himself He Never Would, he might’ve been able to summon a plausible excuse. But one accidental glance at Bruce’s chest, at the scarred stretch of his back, and Clark’d felt paralyzed, struck like stone on the spot, and it was easier to reach for the catch of his own cape than to try to make the words come.

That had seemed like the better choice at the time, but now that the presence of falling asleep was gone, now that Bruce’s body is brushing the edges of his, now, not so much.

He’s been quiet for too long, he must have, because Bruce is talking again, his voice warm and amused.

“She’d be a nicer bed companion than me, anyway. I’ve been told that I snore.”

“Oh.” Clark opens his eyes, stares at the flickering stars of the fire reflected in the canopy. “You do?”

He can feel Bruce shrug. “Apparently. And something tells me Diana does not.”

“Right.”

“And like you said: she’s beautiful.”

Something in the way he says it, almost reverent, pokes at Clark like a needle. “Huh. Is that what this is about?”

“What?”

Clark turns, sees those dark eyes looking back. “You’re projecting.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He sounds petulant to his own ears. He can’t shut himself up. “You’re the one who wishes Diana was here."

“Did I say that?”

“No. This is me reading between the lines.”

“The _lines_?” Bruce laughs, a sharp little bark. “Jesus christ, Kent. Turn off the goddamn boy reporter.”

Their knees are touching. Their knees are touching under the close, silky sheets and Clark is not, he is not, getting hard from it, that soft hunt of skin. No, he’s not.

“You’re the one who brought her up, Bruce.”

“I was trying to make conversation! I was trying to make this whole thing less fucking awkward!”

“By telling me who you think I’d rather be in bed with? Yeah, that’s not awkward at all!”

Bruce snarls, a sound that pulls heat up Clark’s hips, his back. “At least I was making an effort. You think this is easy for me? Being stuck here with you, of all people?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Bruce spits, leaning into his face, “that you’re a pain in my ass. From the moment I met you, you’ve just needled me, poked at me, nagged me, questioned my every goddamn decision. Don’t deny it. You know that you have.”

Clark feels brave. Brave and bold. Bold and bordering foolish. Bruce is so close, closer than he’s ever been, and like he’d said, this is ridiculous already, so why the hell not go for broke? Why not press his palm to Bruce’s cheek and to slip the other hand around to his back? Why not murmur, a voice that tastes like sex: “Somebody needs to. Somebody has to call you on your BS, and everyone else is afraid to. I have no idea why.”

Bruce freezes. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink, he just hangs there, the moment does, stilled by the firm press of Clark’s shaking hands. Finally, he finds Clark’s eyes and says, very softly:

“But you’re not, are you?”

“Nope.” Clark might be smiling. “Never have been.”

Bruce’s eyes flutter. His face is hot under Clark’s hand, his heart a sudden, furious beast. “Good,” he says. “So don’t start now. Kiss me already, Kent.”


End file.
